


Happy Belated Birthday

by LauraAnneB



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Before the Landsmeet, Birthday Party, Canon-Typical Violence, Fertility Issues, Meet the Family, Miscarriage, Multi, Poverty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29769495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LauraAnneB/pseuds/LauraAnneB
Summary: With the Alienage no longer locked down, Cyrion Tabris visits his daughter at Arl Eamon’s to celebrate her belated birthday. As he does so, he reflects on the darkness in his family's past and contemplates a dark future as an army of darkspawn march on Denerim. Meeting his daughter’s unusual companions is daunting—and hearing her plans should she survive the Blight even more so. For the 2020 Dragon Age Prompt Exchange Fill-a-Thon.
Relationships: Alistair & Tabris (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3
Collections: Dragon Age Prompt Exchange





	1. Chapter 1

Cyrion had been carving griffons since the day the Grey Warden took his daughter.

After receiving word that the Grey Wardens fell at Ostagar, he’d been nearly obsessive. Griffons lying down. Griffons standing. Griffons rearing up with wings spread.

Carving had kept his thoughts in order. _Be like Kallian,_ he thought with each mark of his knife. _Be like Adaia._ He’d fallen apart when his wife died five years ago. He’d owed it to the memories of those he loved to keep moving forward.

Those griffons had allowed him to do what needed to be done.

When Loghain had appointed Rendon Howe as Arl of Denerim, Arl Howe had led a purge of the Alienage in revenge for Kallian and Soris killing the previous Arl of Denerim’s son and his friends when the young men had stolen Kallian and other women during her ill-fated wedding. When the soldiers had marched through the gates, Cyrion had hidden who he could and tended to what few wounded the humans had left. He’d given every coin he’d had to the Chantry sisters to help provide medicine and food for the Alienage. When some of their neighbours blamed Soris for the purge, he’d given Soris and his new wife, Valora, food and shelter. He’d spoken at street corners and council meetings, urging peace and trying to cool flaring tempers.

He’d actually thought it was promising that Tevinter mages had come to the Alienage to stop a plague they claimed was stalking Denerim’s elves. It had been a sign that nobles were listening to the concerns of the Alienage, that they weren’t just quarantining elves in the Alienage and letting them die. Now he knew that plague had been a lie perpetuated by Loghain to sell elves to Tevinter as slaves.

Not that many elves believed that. In the few days since his daughter had freed him from that cage, Cyrion had told the truth to anyone who would listen. He’d gotten mostly disbelief from anyone who hadn’t been in that cage with him—including his own family.

“Of course, we’re all happy to have Kallian back,” his brother, Wyren, had said. Cyrion had always gone to his little brother for straight talk; Wyren didn’t have a tactful bone in his body. “And I don’t doubt they’d caged you, as you said. But Loghain couldn’t have known. Who’d sell their own people? It must’ve been some Tevinter trick.”

“I heard the Tevinter slavers speak of it myself.”

“I believe that’s what you heard,” Wyren had said in that soothing way that made Cyrion feel all 62 of his years. “But it just doesn’t make sense.”

“Why would your own niece lie?”

“Kal never met a truth she couldn’t twist on a good day, and after everything that happened at her wedding and at Ostagar….”

“You think she’s mad?”

“I think she’s dangerous. Much as I love the girl, she always was. She has a story she wants to tell, about Ostagar and Loghain and a Blight, of all things, and she’ll tell it despite what’s true and good.”

Wyren had once looked up to Cyrion as his older brother and trusted his word without question. Cyrion had left Wyren’s house, sadness weighing down his heart. _But I know the truth_ , he’d reminded himself. _The truth always comes to light. Wyren and the others just need time to accept it._

Cyrion took one of his many griffons down from the shelf above his bed, joints cracking as he stretched. This one was a griffon of pale-blonde maple, sitting alert on a nest, with an egg between its forelegs. His little girl was 20 years old. In Cyrion’s job as a carpenter’s apprentice, he’d been allowed to take scraps of wood home to work on, so he’d usually given his family carvings on their birthdays.

 _I’ll have to think of something new, now._ Not all employers had waited for their elven employees to return from a quarantine with no end in sight. Like many, Cyrion was now unemployed. He’d need to find something soon. His hip already pained him. How long did he have until his knuckles swelled and every movement of his hands was agony?

 _Though there’s a Blight to deal with, first._ A Blight was so large, Cyrion could barely fit it into his mind. The idea kept surprising him. Part of him understood why Wyren resisted Kallian’s truths. Blights happened in the mists of the ancient past, not now, not after Howe’s purge and Tevinter slavers and everything the elves had suffered. Not when there was work to find and larders to fill. Blights weren’t supposed to happen in times like these.

Cyrion stared at the griffon in his hand. His daughter had gone so far beyond Alienage walls, he couldn’t even imagine it. He didn’t envy her having to convince the world that another nightmare had come upon them.

“Got an idea for another griffon, Uncle?” Soris looked up from the eggs he was frying. He was still sleeping poorly, judging by the dark smudges below his eyes. Valora had been taken by what they now knew was Tevinter slavers. Cyrion could hardly imagine his grief.

“I missed Kallian’s birthday. I’ve never missed it before.”

“Why don’t you give it to her as a belated birthday present?”

“Oh, she’s dealing with so much. I wouldn’t want to bother her.”

“Hmm. You may be right. Why don’t I check with Shianni and see what she thinks? Kallian spoke to her most.”

Cyrion threw the covers off him and dressed himself as well as he could without standing up. Being in that cage had aggravated Cyrion’s already-aching hip. Once he was dressed and Soris helped him to his feet, fire burst from the left side of his hip. Cyrion gasped for air, sweat beading on his forehead and back as he tried to stay on his feet.

If she’d been here, Adaia would have advised him to drink turmeric tea for joint pain. But with rumours of a Blight, there were few merchant ships from faraway Rivain and Antiva in the harbour now, even if he’d had the coin. Rose hips grew locally, though Adaia would have scoffed at them, and Soris already had a kettle of rose hip tea on.

Soris steered him toward his chair by the fire. “Rest, Uncle. I’ll visit Shianni and do the shopping.” Their cupboards were mostly bare.

“I can’t ask you to leave….” _Not when half of our neighbours blame you for Howe’s purge._ “Just give me a few hours. The tea always settles me.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for stones flying at my head,” Soris said dryly. More gently, he said, “I’ll be fine. I’ll keep my wits about me.”

Both men knew Cyrion wasn’t going anywhere right now. “Keep safe.”

“Always, Uncle.”

Soris served Cyrion scrambled eggs and rose hip tea, sweetened with the last grains of their sugar, and grabbed the grocery list before leaving. He was such a good lad. It was a shame that he seemed to have the world’s worst luck. His parents been killed by human mobs when he was young, he’d grown up another poor orphan in a place overflowing with them, he’d been blamed for Howe’s purge,

Cyrion was overdue for a visit to the Chantry, so when the rose hip tea allowed him to walk without too much pain, he left his chair by the fire and set out of the Alienage. A cool wind broke through summer’s heat, bringing the smell of dung and urine from the tanneries by the Alienage walls. Ellison’s flock of children were playing tag around the vhenadahl. Five so far, all with chestnut-brown hair, with a sixth on the way. Such a blessing to have so many children.

The gates creaked open, and he was swept along into the Denerim streets. He passed the patch of ground by the gates where, five years ago, the city guard had thrown his wife’s corpse. By the time he’d reached Adaia through the crowd, someone had covered her with their cloak. Valendrian, the Alienage’s hahren, had wrapped her in linen when it came time to burn her body. Rumour said the guards had stripped her naked, or they’d smashed most of her teeth from her mouth, or they’d cut off her ears. Cyrion had never asked which rumours were true.

He paused, though these days he did so rarely. _Maker, let her have found her way to your side._ After his prayer, he continued on to the Chantry. He passed many human refugees by the Alienage’s wall, living out of carts and tents, hawking what goods they’d brought with them as they fled the Blight. Uneasily, Cyrion recalled Wyren’s darkly muttered, _Those shem eye our homes as if they’ll storm our wall and take them. Let the whoresons try._

Cyrion had countered that humans owned most property in the Alienage and could legally evict their elven tenants at any time, which had only increased Wyren’s grumbling.

It was a relief to see the Chantry through the stream of people, large and proud, the plain brown of its brick interrupted by colourful stained windows. When one of the chanters at the gate saw Cyrion, she went inside. Mother Hughes met him before he entered, beaming bright as the noon sun above. She’d been a young lay sister, fresh-faced and willowy, when his parents first brought him to the Chantry; now, she was wrinkled and plump, but she had a gaze touched with wisdom. It was she who dealt most with Alienage matters. Earlier this year, she had created the marriage certificates for Kallian and Soris and their betrothed bride and groom from Highever. They were to have been signed at the wedding; only Soris’s had been.

“Welcome back, Cyrion,” Mother Hughes said. “I praise Andraste that your quarantine is finished and our elven congregants may return to us.”

“I only wish all who were quarantined could rejoin the fold, Mother. We lost too many.”

Hughes raised her pale-grey gaze to the sky solemnly. “I grieve to hear it. May the Light lead them safely into the next world. Was Valendrian one of them? I’d hoped to hear word of Alienage matters from him.”

“He was.” Cyrion considered telling her it had not been plague that took Valendrian, but why should she believe him? “I apologize that no one thought to inform you earlier. We have no hahren to speak for us. I pray we’ll be able to choose a new one soon.” What did her congregation know of the dangers threatening Ferelden? “Mother, months ago, before the quarantine, elves came to the Alienage from beyond Denerim. They spoke of a new Blight.”

There was no solemnity now, just an indulgent smile. “If a Blight truly threatens Ferelden, surely we would have been told.”

 _Of course, Loghain claims otherwise. How can I convince her?_ “The stories I’ve heard are terrible, Mother: darkspawn roaming the land, crops dying, the entire town of Lothering destroyed—”

“Have faith in the Maker’s will, my son. We must leave our worries and fears with Andraste. She will not bring us more than we can bear. Is that what brings you to our door?”

“No. I have been blessed beyond my deserving. I would give thanks to Our Lady.”

“I won’t keep you, then. Here.” She handed him three candles. “One for your people, your wife and your daughter.” When he reached for his coin purse, she waved him away. “Spare your coin, please.”

In the darkest, most cynical corner of his mind, Cyrion thought, _So it takes a purge, a plague, and the death of my wife and child for you not to take my coin._ He pushed the thought aside. _Who am I to criticize a mother of the Chantry?_

He stepped inside, his crutch clicking on the stone floor. A statue of Andraste rose 12 feet high in the style of the ancients, depicting Andraste as a warrior ready for battle.

Unfortunately, the only place for him to put his candles was on the floor at her feet. He struggled to lower himself, gritting his teeth as his hip flared. He’d rubbed the muscles of his hip and thigh countless times—this pain was too deep to ease with the hands. It was bone-deep and constant. Ceaseless.

“Here, sir,” said a lay brother, eyes wide with concern. “I’ll light your candles for you.”

“Thank you, lad.” Maker, was that his own voice, breathless and tight with pain? A memory of his grandfather, bed-ridden and sour-faced, made him frown. _I’m not there yet, praise Andraste. I won’t let pain twist me into something I’m not. I’ll hold on as long as I can._

The young brother lit his candles then backed away, giving Cyrion space to pray. Cyrion made note of his face—freckles, grey eyes, black hair—to commend him to Mother Hughes. The Lady was found in such small mercies.

He watched the candle flames, whispering those Canticles of Trials that he knew by heart. _Thank you for bringing my girl back to me, Andraste._ _Guide her on the path that is set before her. Give her grace and strength._

His eyes drifted closed. Adaia spoke to him, as clearly as if she stood behind him. _Visit our girl, you old goose_. _An Archdemon makes its way toward Denerim; take what time the Maker gives you. Kallian will wave you off if she has more important things to do._ _Besides, who says no to presents and cake?_

Guilt soured his stomach. By rights, he should have been listening for the Lady’s voice or feeling the Maker’s peace, but it was Adaia’s voice that guided him. _Though she would have loved that she was tempting me to sin from beyond the grave, I’m sure._

Adaia had been willful and wild. When Cyrion had asked her to quit mercenary work and help him raise Kallian, she’d agreed. She hadn’t mentioned that she’d use staying in Denerim as an opportunity to start stealing from nobility, fencing their jewels and silver for coin. He’d been rather cross when he learned of her “wealth redistribution,” as she’d jokingly called it. He’d tried to persuade her to settle down once and for all. But for every argument he’d had, Adaia had had five more. Didn’t she have to keep her skills sharp for when Kallian was grown and the open road beckoned once more? Didn’t more money coming into the Alienage mean food for the starving, medicine for the sick, and blankets for the freezing?

Had he wed her secretly thinking she’d be happy as a broodmare and mother hen? Didn’t he _love_ her?

Of course, Cyrion had loved her, and, of course, he had relented. Whatever coin she brought in, he ensured it could go to the neediest in the Alienage.

Until the day Adaia had been unlucky.

She’d died for his greed and comfort. He should have allowed her to take all the mercenary jobs she could. Better to have her away and him worrying, with Kallian always asking when Mama was coming home, than this. He’d wed a falcon and then tried to cage her. _I should have let you soar, my love. I hope I can apologize to you when we meet again._

He opened his eyes, and for a moment he could see her in the statue of Andraste: her daggers at her back, her dark-brown hair flowing behind her, her confident grin. Then, she vanished. The statue was Andraste again, as it always had been.

Cyrion sought out Mother Hughes to speak of the young man that had helped him. _If only I could convince her that a Blight is coming to Denerim. The more the citizens of Denerim are warned, the better they can prepare, either to flee or fight. But why should a mother of the Chantry listen to an elf?_

His wife and daughter were brave. If Kallian could put an arrow through the eye of a dread Tevinter blood mage, he could try again.

Mother Hughes was speaking quietly with some sisters in the Chantry’s foyer. Perhaps Kallian or Adaia would have walked up to her, but Cyrion waited until she was finished before catching her eye. She approached him, her expression one of curiosity.

“A young brother helped me set out my candles,” he explained. “He has grey eyes, black hair and freckles….”

“Ah, lay-brother Morton. How kind of him.”

His pulse hammered at his throat. His tongue went dry. “It was. And yet that was all the kindness I felt as I sought Andraste’s wisdom. Mother, the stories I’ve heard of the Blight seem credible. I know that at times darkspawn crawl out of their tunnels and run amok, but too many of my fellows have told the same tale, all from different areas of Ferelden—”

She rested her hand on his arm and he fell silent. Unbidden, his skin crawled. Who gave her the right to touch him? Only his family and dear friends had touched him since his wife’s death.

He made himself breathe slowly in and out. _She is a mother of the Chantry. She seeks to comfort me. That’s all._

 _Would she touch me if I were human? I wonder._ He’d gone to this Chantry for five decades and would never have singled her out as the hand-clasping, shoulder-squeezing type, like some mothers.

“You have suffered much, Cyrion,” Mother Hughes said softly. “When we are in the depths of pain, our mind can latch on to darkness and turn from the light. But only the light is truth. There is no Blight in Ferelden. We must trust in our leaders, who know what’s best.”

 _Loghain sold my people to Tevinter!_ he wanted to shout, but such an outburst would get him barred from the Chantry.

 _It’s only natural she’d listen to Loghain. He’s a hero, our regent—and human. Perhaps I can plant a seed and human words will water it._ “Of course, Mother. No doubt these are the worries of an old man who has lost much. I’m sure no humans have said the same.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “There are so many by our gate these days.” They both knew only refugees would live near an Alienage. “I hope they get back to their farms and homesteads soon after this bad season, poor souls.”

He may have imagined it, but he thought doubt tugged Mother Hughes’ brows together for an instant. “I’ve not had the opportunity to speak with them. Other sisters and mothers would know more. Perhaps I could assist them in delivering aid to the humans.” She dropped her hand from his arm. Cyrion tried not to audibly sigh with relief.

Her visiting the human refugees wasn’t what Cyrion had hoped for, but good may yet come of it. The more in the Chantry who heard stories of the Blight, the better.

“That would ease my heart greatly. The Alienage is but three days out of quarantine, and already there’s been tensions. We elves have little, but when one has little to lose, one fights all the harder for it. No one wants brawls in the streets.”

Her eyes widened. “I hadn’t considered that. Thank you for telling me, Cyrion. Your wisdom is, as always, appreciated.”

What she called wisdom, he called stating the obvious, but he smiled. Let her think him flattered by her praise. “You’re quite welcome, Mother.”

If she ever touched him again, this woman who spoke for Denerim’s elves in the Chantry but barely knew him, he would stop her. He would at least look surprised and step back, letting her know how offensive he found her overfamiliar gesture.

He left the Chantry feeling lighter than he had when he’d entered. Grateful, he silently prayed to Andraste as he walked. Even the dull throb in his hip didn’t cloud his spirits. His good mood continued until he returned home, where Soris and Shianni met him with twin looks of disapproval.

“Do I even need to say anything?” Soris asked.

“After tea and a rest, my hip was well enough for a walk.”

“You’re panting and sweating, Uncle,” Shianni said.

“It’s…it’s quite hot outside.” But his chair by the fire did look very inviting.

Soris grabbed a cup from the cupboard, filled it from the rain barrel outside, and brought it to him. “Where did you go, anyway?”

Cyrion took a long sip before replying. “To the Chantry. I spoke to Mother Hughes of some Alienage matters—minus any treasonous slander against Loghain or any hint two Grey Wardens survived Ostagar.”

Shianni groaned in frustration. “Either one of us could have gone to speak with her! Or you could have sent a letter!”

Cyrion’s walk to his chair looked more like a hobble than he would wish. He sat down with a heavy sigh and a grunt. “Some things are better done in person. I also needed to pray.”

“If I remember the Chant right, Andraste can hear you just fine from here,” Shianni continued.

“Sometimes, a Chantry’s walls are needed to focus our thoughts beyond our petty concerns.” He paused. “Though…I suppose didn’t do particularly well at that. I spoke with Adaia.”

Cyrion realized his mistake when Soris and Shianni shared an alarmed look. “Figuratively, I mean. I’ve not gone senile yet. Adaia told me to visit Kallian to make up for the lost birthday. It might hearten Kallian in the trials ahead to think on the love and support of her family.”

“Most of the family doesn’t support her, though,” Soris noted.

“Well, we don’t need to mention the misguided few who don’t.”

Shianni sighed and pursed her lips as she sought to master her frustration. “And…for some reason…you needed to go all the way to the Chantry to hear Auntie Adaia.”

“I _am_ supposed to exercise my hip,” he reminded her gently. It was a difficult line to tread, but lack of movement was just as bad for swollen joints as overexercise. “What does it matter where I go when I do it? Besides, we will need the succor of the Chantry in the days to come.”

Shianni opened her mouth, but Soris was faster. “What’s done is done. I hope you enjoyed your walk, Uncle.”

“Thank you, son. And thank you for your concern, Shianni.”

Shianni glanced away, cheeks flushing. “I’m sorry to be such a harpy. I just hate thinking of you in pain, especially—” she stopped herself then quickly said, “—with your hip so bad.”

 _Especially after you were thrown in a cage and almost taken to Tevinter as a slave_ , Cyrion supplied. He doubted the memories of that day would leave him soon. Those reeking cages. Elves whispering prayers and weeping. The magisters evaluating each would-be slave with cool, dispassionate eyes, as if they were livestock.

Soris and Shianni seemed to have sunk into their own painful memories. All three of them were intimate with helplessness. _And we’re the lucky ones. We survived._

_Perhaps we need some mirth and joy more than we’d like to admit._

Cyrion clapped his hands, startling them back to the present. “Now, shall we shake the family tree and see what gifts fall out?”


	2. Chapter 2

Even though most of the Tabrises thought Kallian a dangerous liar, none of them would dare skimp on a relative’s birthday. It was a matter of pride.

Unfortunately, most Tabrises were just as poor as Cyrion or more so. So they had to get creative.

“She doesn’t really need anything,” Shianni assured relatives who had little more than crusts of bread and the clothes on their backs. “She was wearing dragonscale armour and carrying a rune-covered bow! But if you have a little trinket to let her know we’re thinking about her….” She, Cyrion and Soris had only brought small baskets with them to carry the family’s gifts.

“Kallian always did like my carrot muffins,” Cyrion’s sister, Orella, said. “She’d always manage to nab one when my back was turned!” What had once been an earnest complaint had become a fond memory. “I can have a dozen for her by tomorrow.”

The back of a faded page of the Chant of Light became a drawing by Cyrion’s youngest niece, five-year-old Premma. A stick-figure Kallian stood, bow in hand, spikey blobs that Cyrion assumed were griffons flying around her.

“I notice Kallian’s wearing her hair up now,” Wyren said. (“She’s been wearing her hair up since she was 12,” Shianni muttered to Soris.) “I think we have a ribbon somewhere?” The ribbon was Wyren’s husband’s, and the two got into a horrible argument about it, but it got added to the pile anyway.

A third cousin happened to have half a jar of linseed oil. “I’ve heard tell it’s for bows. I wouldn’t know, myself.” This was a proper response. Elves were forbidden to carry weapons within the city walls, after all. “Just found it in a barrel in an alleyway. Strange, what you find if you just look!”

A moth-eaten stuffed bear Kallian had played with once. A cotton handkerchief with a blue ‘K’ hastily stitched on. And, of course, copper and some silver for those who had any to spare. Cyrion took what was offered. It felt good to give, and the family knew he would give just as openly when they or their children had need of anything. 

Cyrion, Shianni and Soris passed by the vhenadahl to a crowd of elves: 50, at least. And many of those 50 were turning to face him, his niece and his nephew.

“Oh no,” Soris whispered. This could only be a mob out for Soris’s blood. They were carrying stones.

“Soris,” Cyrion muttered as he stood in front of Soris, “get ready to run.”

“Absolutely not, Uncle!”

“I’ll talk them down.”

“Andraste’s ass!” Shianni said, loud enough for the gathering crowd the hear. She glared at them, stepping forward. “Seriously?!” 

Kishara, Valendrian’s aunt, was one of the closest elves to them. She raised her hands in surrender, showing off what she was carrying. What he’d thought was a stone was, in fact, a wrapped present.

“My apologies for startling you so!” she said. “We happened to hear you’re soliciting presents for a belated birthday for Kallian. We all think that’s a wonderful idea, and we’d like to offer what we can.”

Soris sighed in relief. Shianni took a step back.

“For the Warden!” a voice cried out from the crowd. “For the hero of the Alienage!”

Cyrion swallowed as he tried to collect his thoughts. “Thank you kindly, Kishara.” Now that there was no pressing danger, he realized many in the crowd were elves who’d been in cages with him or those who’d lost family and friends to the so-called plague. “We don’t have enough baskets to carry everyone’s gifts,” he realized. “If you’d like to stop by my home, you can drop your gifts off, and I’ll make a list of who gave what for Kallian to read.”

All of the families before him had gaps where loved ones should be. If all the Alienage’s ghosts appeared, they’d fill all of Denerim. His people had lost so much, and had no obligation of blood and custom to give, yet still generosity moved them. A lump grew in his throat.

_We are so blessed to have each other, Lady._

* * *

Not everyone in the Alienage was pleased to help. Later in the evening, as he, Soris and Shianni were counting coins and presents, Widow Crendelle—nicknamed Widow Crab Apple by the youth—showed up at his door. He was less surprised when he saw she bore no gift. At 96, she was a wizened woman with a spine that curved like a bow. Her knuckles were so swollen she could barely grip the cane she used to walk.

Age had made her smaller and feebler, but age hadn’t changed her ever-present glare. The only thing new about that was the milky cataract in her left eye.

“I hear you’re collecting gifts for your girl,” she said.

Cyrion spoke more loudly so she could hear him. “Yes, Widow.” Soris stopped counting coins to pour some tea for Widow Crendelle, as was only polite.

She waved Soris off with a glare and grunt. To Cyrion, she said, “I thought the Grey Wardens all died.”

“I was told that, as well. By some miracle—”

“Miracle, was it? I wonder. Hmph. Could be cowardice. Perhaps she saw the battle turning and ran. Always running, your girl! Running away from mischief. Running toward trouble. Running, running, running!”

Cyrion fixed an interested expression on his face and let her rant. _She must be lonely. Maker knows, she’s driven Gertie and her grandchildren away with her sourness._

With a pang, he remembered that her daughter Gertie had been taken by Tevinter slavers. He and Gertie had played together as children. As they’d grown, their games had turned more adult; those awkward tumbles had convinced them they made better friends than lovers, and they’d wed other people. The demands of work and family had kept them busy, but he’d always enjoyed catching up with his old playmate at weddings and festivals. _I always meant to spend more time with her. Maker, how many friends from my youth are left?_

“Are you even listening?!” Widow Crendelle snapped.

“I beg your pardon, Widow Crendelle.” He gestured to the pile of presents at his table and the list he was working on. “If you don’t mind, I must return to my work. Thank you for visiting. If there’s anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to knock on my door.”

“Do I look like I need help, boy? Pah! The cheek! The impudence! I thought your girl got it from her bitch mother, but mayhap she got it from you.”

Cyrion’s jaw clenched. He made himself inhale slowly.

Shianni was by his side in an instant, cheeks blazing. “Shut your mouth about my aunt, you old—”

“Step aside, please, my dear,” Cyrion said to her, his voice even. To Widow Crendelle, he nodded pleasantly, as if she’d said nothing untoward. “As I said, thank you for the visit, Widow.”

The old woman glared between Shianni, Cyrion and Soris, then left.

Cyrion loosed a ragged breath. Even though he was sitting, just being around her seemed to make the pain in his hip worse.

“You know you don’t have to take that, right?” Shianni said to him.

Cyrion shrugged. “I’m not going to change the old harridan’s mind. Let her curse at a dead woman she barely knew. It reflects on her, not me.”

“You’re a better person than I am, Uncle.”

Cyrion turned back to the table full of gifts. His gaze fell on his griffon. A griffon on a nest, guarding an egg. Would it hurt Kallian, to think of the children she didn’t have? He did have some other pieces he could give her.

Then again, a griffon guarding an egg didn’t have to evoke children. The egg could represent the world, and Kallian the Grey Warden defending it. The griffon could even represent himself and Adaia protecting her. Adaia had almost been a Grey Warden, after all. And it was one of his better pieces.

An hour later, another knock sounded on the door. Ayda, a girl around Kallian’s age who’d wed a local boy months ago, sheepishly handed him a few sheets of paper wrapped in string. “Kal wrote some poems when we were younger, ser Tabris. I kept ‘em. I always did enjoy ‘em. I’ve made copies and…well, she might want the originals.” She hurried away before he could do more than thank her.

The bundles of paper smelled of earth, as if they’d been buried or hidden underneath a floorboard.

“Er, maybe don’t give those to Kallian, Uncle,” Soris said.

“Why not? I remember those few months Kallian tried her hand at poetry. She would have been…oh, 16 or 17. She might enjoy the works of her younger self.” To mock, if nothing else. Kallian was always quick with a jest.

“She and Ayda had a falling out, though,” Shianni said. “She might not want to be reminded of that.”

Though Cyrion had drifted through grey, blank years after Adaia’s death, he did know a few things about his daughter. “Ayda broke Kallian’s heart, you mean.”

Shianni and Soris shared a surprised look. Did they think he hadn’t heard Kallian weeping into her pillow while he pretended to sleep? He and Kallian had lived together in a one-room shack; simple proximity had meant they kept few secrets from each other. He just hadn’t been able to comfort her. Everything—even his daughter’s tears—had overwhelmed him then, leaving him paralyzed.

“Or,” Cyrion looked at the papers thoughtfully, “perhaps Kallian broke hers? I didn’t want to pry, so I never learned.”

“Ayda broke Kallian’s heart,” Shianni said firmly. “That vicious hussy.”

“Shianni—”

“Sorry for the language, Uncle. But she was!”

“Still, I think I’ll give the poems to Kallian. Perhaps this is Ayda’s way of apologizing to her or making peace. I wouldn’t take that away from her. I’ll let my daughter make of them what she will.”

He imagined Ayda had hardly been the only one who’d broken Kallian’s heart. Because of his neglect after Adaia’s death, Kallian had gained a reputation.

Alarith, a local shopkeep and rumoured smuggler, had alerted him of it. “You need to curb your girl, Cyrion. No one wants to see her pregnant before she’s wed—or catching the Antivan disease.” Since elves were considered children until they were wed, lovemaking was seen by most as a youthful game before the solemn duty of marriage and child-rearing. Of course, parents found marriages much harder to arrange for their children if those children had pregnant bellies or sore-encrusted mouths. It seemed a few poor souls in every generation were unable to secure a match because of such things.

It was only natural that a young woman whose mother had died and whose father was lost to grief would seek love wherever she could. Alarith’s warning had startled Cyrion into action; he’d started working seriously with Valendrian to broker Kallian’s marriage.

He could still remember the day he brought it up to her. They’d been having breakfast on a cloudy autumn day. She’d been 17, with some acne still on her cheeks and forehead.

She’d laughed. “Papa! What am I being punished for, that you’re looking to get rid of me? Is it my nighttime walks?”

That was their code for her sneaking out of the Alienage to practice thievery and lockpicking. If Adaia had robbed from the rich to give to the poor, naturally, Kallian would attempt to do the same. Over the past year, Cyrion had tried to persuade her that those same skills had killed Adaia. It hadn’t worked. Kallian had insisted she was honoring Adaia’s memory by practicing what she’d learned from her. 

“No,” he’s said, “although you know how I feel about those.” Ever since the first night she’d snuck out when she’d thought he was asleep, not a day had gone by without some tension.

She’d chuckled. “Bold of you to assume I listen to you when you talk, Papa.”

“Despite your barbed quips, I would sooner cut off a limb than see you leave.”

She’d blinked. After a moment, she’d lightly said, “Aw, Papa. And here I wondered if I’d reached the limits of your love.”

She’d developed a deadpan delivery when speaking of painful things—he hadn’t always been sure when she was joking. He’d decided to take her seriously. “A father could never stop loving his daughter. I’m asking Valendrian to have someone come to Denerim.”

“It would be pleasant to have a new face in town. I’m so bored of everyone’s stories. ‘What did you do today, Shianni?’” She’d pretended to be talking to an invisible person next to her. “’Oh, you scrubbed the floors for 12 hours in a desperate attempt to get enough money to survive? The exact same thing as yesterday?’ Ugh, pretending to be interested is exhausting.”

“This person would be more than just a source of new tales. They’d be the person you must honor and cherish the rest of your life.”

“Ah, yes. That too, I suppose.” The gravity of his words hadn’t seemed to sink in, but that was Kallian’s way. Just because she spoke lightly more often than not didn’t mean she was callow or uncaring.

“They’d be the start of your new family, assuming you prefer men. I’ll admit, I’m not quite sure where you stand on that.” According to rumour, she’d been seen in the company of both men and women, but Cyrion hadn’t wanted to put any trust in rumours. When he’d wed a mercenary from Rivain, rumours had spread about his new bride, and most of them had been utter dross.

“Men aren’t so bad. I suppose if it comes down to it, I prefer looking at women. But, then again—” she’d smirked “—I can still look at women when I’m wed, so what does that matter?”

Reproachfully, he’d said, “Kallian….”

She’d giggled. “I said look, Papa. Obviously, I wouldn’t touch!” She’d chewed her bacon, her mirth fading to thoughtfulness. “Could you find a homebody for me? Someone who doesn’t mind if I’m gone for a long time?”

“Er, where exactly would you be going?”

“I’d be a mercenary, like Mama.”

Cyrion remembered working very hard to keep his dismay hidden as Kallian continued. This wasn’t how you made a good match. Elves who’d spent their whole lives in a city weren’t even supposed to know how to wield weapons.

“It’s a legal job—isn’t that what you want for me? Whoever I wed can stay home and take care of the house and kids, while I’d be—” she’d gestured expansively “—out there. Doing something interesting, for once.” Some of his feelings must have been visible, for she’d raised her chin and firmly said, “I’m good with a bow, Papa. I can be just like her. Better, probably.”

His thoughts had been whirling as he’d struggled to make sense of this unanticipated turn. “I—Kallian—dear one— The joy of having a family is that you’re _there_ for your family. Your mother understood that. She got tired of life on the road—”

“At least she was on a road. I’ve gone nowhere and done nothing!”

“Admittedly, all I know about mercenary groups is from your mother’s stories, but I don’t think they’re looking for 17-year-olds fresh out of the Alienage.”

“But someone might be, once I show them what I can do. You won’t even let me try?”

“It’s a dangerous line of work, darling.” He’d quailed to think of Kallian facing any of the creatures Adaia claimed to have faced: demons, walking corpses, giant spiders, rabid tuskets. And those were just creatures. Most times, mercenaries were facing bandits or other mercenaries. Could his little girl really take a life?

“Everything’s dangerous! You worked the docks when you were younger. Lifting heavy crates all day isn’t dangerous? Last year, Saria’s father threw his back out doing just that, and now he can’t even get out of bed.”

She’d inhaled deeply, calming herself. “Please, Papa. Is it so terrible, to want the taste of adventure Mama had? I’m not saying I’m going to run away and abandon Denerim and my family. This is my home.” She’d reached out and rested her hand on his. “ _You’re_ my home, Papa.”

She had her mother’s eyes: a brown so dark they looked black from far away. _I tried to curb Adaia’s spirit, and she died for it. How dare I try to curb Kallian’s?_ He sighed. _But,_ _Andraste, how I hoped my little girl would have a bit more of me in her._

“I’ll speak to Valendrian.” He’d squeezed her hand. “We’ll do what we can, child.”

She’d leapt from her chair, hugging him. “Thank you, Papa, thank you!” She’d kissed his forehead. “I love you more than everything in the world!”

He and Adaia had said that to Kallian at bedtimes when she was younger. He’d smiled to hear it echoed back to him.

“It was unfair of me to bring up your mother,” he’d said as Kallian sat back down. “You’re at very different stages in your life, after all. Only…I’m not sure how I’m going to explain this to Valendrian. It’s not very traditional.”

“We don’t need to say the word ‘mercenary.’ Tell Valendrian to tell suitors that I’m interested in travelling. It’s not even a lie! Mama was Rivaini. I’d love to go there someday.”

She’d always been so quick. “Interested in travelling. All right.”

It had taken almost two years to broker the marriage, given travel times for letters and haggling over the dowry. Kallian’s groom, Nelaros, had seemed to be just what Kallian wanted. Privately, Cyrion had been happy they’d found a man for her rather than a woman. A groom meant children of Kallian’s blood, and some of Adaia deserved to be passed on.

* * *

Night fell, cooling the hot summer air. Most elves went outside to enjoy the coolness before turning in. The stars blazed in a cloudless sky. Lovers would be wishing on those stars. Parents would be pointing out constellations to their children. It was the kind of night where you could imagine nothing bad would ever happen.

_The Blight won’t take the stars, at least. But in a few weeks, will I see this view from my window again?_

They’d amassed two sacks of presents, a coin purse with 20 coppers and five silvers, and were promised fresh carrot muffins and honeycakes tomorrow morning.

“Praise Andraste,” Cyrion said, touched. “We’ll see how Kallian likes her gifts tomorrow.” It had been a long time since he’d had something to look forward to.

“I’ll pick up the baked goods and wait for you by the gates,” Shianni said. She kissed Cyrion’s cheek and hugged her cousin before she left for the evening.

After a few moments, Soris glanced at the double-bed, where he’d slept with his wife. “Would you like your bed back?”

“You’re not…?”

Soris shook his head. “Sleeping there makes me think of Valora. I keep reaching for her. The bunk bed is fine.”

 _Maker, but I know that well enough._ “The pain gets more bearable, son. I wish I could say it goes away, but….” He sighed. “It doesn’t. Not in my experience.”

“Valora was so good. She wanted to help the Alienage. She had so many ideas about the future of our people. Things I never could’ve imagined!” Valora had spoken of these often at the dinner table: petitioning nobles for better living conditions in the Alienage, going on strike of those conditions weren’t met, organizing guilds dedicated to teaching elves skills they’d need for better-paying jobs. For such a soft-spoken young woman, she’d had some radical ideas. Shianni had been a frequent guest at these dinners, listening intently. Soris was much more cynical about their people being able to organize anything, and they’d had some debates, but they’d always been friendly. 

Soris stepped away from Cyrion, arms folded, glaring out the window. “Now she’s on a Tevinter ship, and she’s never coming back. She must be so scared. Who knows what they’ll do to her in Tevinter? Maybe they’ll drain her for some sick blood magic ritual. I can’t stop seeing it!

“I hope Loghain dies for everything he’s done to us. I’ll never meet the man, but it seems like Kallian’s headed right to him.” His fist clenched. “I hope she kills him.”

“I understand your anger. So many good people should be here.” The Chant taught not to take a life lightly, but there was a time and place for moralizing, and this wasn’t it. In Cyrion’s opinion, killing the Hero of the River Dane seemed like it would cause a world of problems. Surely, justice could be served by a trial?

Soris began changing out of his clothes and into his night-shirt and loose breeches. Cyrion politely looked aside as he changed into his own night-shirt. “And all those people giving us gifts today were threatening to burn me out of my home yesterday!” After a loud sigh, he spoke more quietly. “I love my cousin. And I’m happy that she’s alive. But I can’t get over everything that happened after she left. And…some terrible part of me hates her for leaving, even though I know she’s probably faced things a thousand times worse than I have.”

Soris began helping Cyrion get into his night-breeches, careful of Cyrion’s aching hip.

“You’re a good lad, Soris. I know, in time, you’ll forgive your fellows their cruelty and folly. We’re elves—all we have in this world is each other. The Maker judges the unworthy. It’s hard to do, but we must accept that this is enough.”

“Hmph. You’re right, of course…but I’m not there yet. Can you make it to the bed?”

“I need your help up, but I can make it.”

Cyrion found that he’d miss sleeping in the bunk bed. He’d built it himself, carving designs into the wood: vines laden with grapes; acorns and oak leaves; bananas, lychees and mangoes from Rivain. He brushed his fingers against the carvings, sighing.

“It’s lovely work, Uncle.” Soris grabbed his arm and helped pull him to his feet.

Cyrion gasped as pain washed over him, leaving him panting. When he could catch his breath, he nodded to Soris, who let him go. “Thank you. Those carvings didn’t do their job, though. They were supposed to help with fertility. That and Adaia’s necklace. It looked like…well. A certain unmentionable part of female anatomy.” He made his way to the double bed and sat, grimacing. At least sitting down wasn’t half so terrible as standing up. “Adaia wore that necklace out of the house once and, oh, didn’t that cause a stir! The sermon that Sunday was about the importance of turning one’s back on pagan superstitions. Adaia joked that she felt famous.”

Soris snickered. “It sounds like something she’d have done.”

Cyrion drew the covers over himself. “All we ever had was Kallian.” An old memory stirred. “Oh, and Darien, too.”

Soris didn’t respond immediately. After a few moments, he said, “I didn’t know you had another child.”

“Hmm. I suppose you wouldn’t. You would’ve been just a babe yourself when he was born. Darien lived but a moment. Five breaths. Five breaths, and then he shuddered, and then…. Life just left him. Adaia was holding him.”

Soris clasped his uncle’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. That must have been terrible.”

“It was, it was.” Cyrion looked at Soris, who had tried so hard and failed so often. “It could drive you mad, thinking of what might have been, wondering why. But the Maker has His plan for all of us, son. That empty bunk pained me for many years. Even when Kallian was born, it was difficult not think of those children that had come before and after her. But then you and Shianni came, and all of Kallian’s friends. You all filled this house with life and laughter—everything I’d wanted in a family. I was so obsessed with what I’d lost that I almost missed the true family surrounding me.

“Life is long. For the poor of this world, life can be hard and full of such torment. But life holds goodness, too, and joy, even if it may seem impossible to imagine at the present. Life is long, and it will change.”

Soris looked away from him. “Thank you, Uncle.” He cleared his throat, snuffed the candles, then got into bed. He’d never been very demonstrative, even as a boy.

In the darkness, Soris said, “It’s good to hear you talking about Auntie Adaia. I’m sure the best present Kallian could receive is hearing more stories of her. She probably still misses Adaia terribly.”

“I’ll—I’ll try.” Sometimes, the pain of his loss overwhelmed him. “Sleep well, son.”

“You as well.”

* * *

There were some parts of Adaia’s story Cyrion wasn’t certain he could tell. He’d been waiting for Adaia to speak of them to their daughter. Was it right to tell them when she no longer could?

Before Kallian’s birth, Adaia had gotten pregnant four times; those four failures had taken their toll on her. Even when Kallian was born, Adaia hadn’t trusted that she would live long. She’d stiffen when Kallian was placed in her arms. Most times, she’d just looked right through her.

One evening when Kallian was three weeks old, Cyrion had awoken to Kallian’s cries. Feeling that Adaia wasn’t by his side, he’d assumed she was dealing with the baby and had tried to get back to sleep. But when he’d heard no lullabies or soothing murmurs, he’d sat up.

Adaia had been standing over Kallian’s crib, staring into it.

“Love,” he’d asked, “what’s wrong?”

Adaia had turned to him, her gaze so intense that it chilled him to the bone. “She isn’t real.”

Cyrion had stared at her, confused. Later, he would berate himself for not moving immediately to the crib. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a demon. Look. Here.” She held Kallian up. Undoing Kallian’s diaper, she’d pointed at a birthmark on her hip. “The sign of rot.”

Only then had Cyrion leapt out of bed and moved to his wife’s side, his limbs grown cold and sluggish in panic.

Adaia had spoken calmly, but with a terrible flatness behind her eyes. “Spirits can take over corpses. I’ve fought them often enough. They’re stupid, but they don’t feel pain. They’re hard to put down.”

“Adaia, give me the child.” His mouth had been so dry, he could barely speak. “Give her to me.”

“You have to aim for the head.”

“She’s our daughter! The child we prayed night and day for! A perfect little girl.”

Adaia had leaned into him so all he could see was those flat brown eyes. “Our son was perfect, but he died. My womb killed the others before they were fully formed. This one died too. Don’t you see?”

He’d moved faster than he ever thought possible, ripping Kallian from her arms and backing away until his legs had hit the back of the bed. Kallian had been so warm against his cold skin, her little feet and legs kicking as she screamed. He’d been acutely aware he was facing a mercenary skilled with blade and bow.

But, Maker be praised, whatever madness had possessed Adaia drained from her, and light returned to her flat eyes. She’d looked confused, as if she hadn’t realized what she’d been saying. “Cyrion?”

That night, he’d dropped Kallian off at his sister’s. The next morning, he’d quit his job as a manservant at Lord Rodolf’s estate. He’d stayed with Adaia from that moment on, only bringing Kallian to her to nurse.

There were days Adaia had blazed like fire, pacing the room, gesturing frantically, her sentences barely comprehensible. Most of her thoughts centred on returning to Rivain, which she claimed would be better for their daughter than backwoods Ferelden. To do so, they’d steal a ship. Or they’d find apostates to help them. Or she’d walk to Nevarra—she’d travelled with a Nevarran mage once, and she’d always been fascinated by them. She’d pass the night telling Cyrion rambling, nonsensical, repetitive plans to return home.

Then, there were days Adaia could barely leave her bed. She’d take so long to eat breakfast that it was time for lunch when she’d finished. Minor irritations that she normally would have laughed off brought tears or rage. She’d been convinced their daughter hated her. Nursing Kallian on those days had cut into her like a knife, and she’d weep for hours after.

Naturally, word of her affliction had made its way through the Alienage. There had been gossip—the usual rubbish about “mad, foreign ways.” But, for the most part, people had come together. Mothers and midwives knew that sometimes women went mad after a child’s birth, but that madness wasn’t permanent. It could be managed, even healed if Andraste willed it.

Cryion had bought all the teas, all the potions, all the charms, anything anyone recommended. He’d prayed daily for Adaia’s health. Gradually, he’d worked out a system with his family where he could care for Kallian while one of his siblings watched Adaia. (Wyren was never chosen to help, not that he’d ever volunteered—no one wanted Adaia’s affliction to be Alienage gossip more than it already was.) His family’s generosity had allowed him to see Kallian’s first smile, the first time she sat up, her first words and first steps. Eventually, they’d allowed Adaia to have supervised visits. She hadn’t always seemed to know how to interact with Kallian, but at least she hadn’t stiffened or looked away when Kallian was placed in her arms.

In the end, it had taken Adaia two years to return to herself. Cyrion had found a sleeping potion that helped her sleep through the night, which had helped immensely. He’d worked odd jobs during these years, so at least they’d kept the house, though they’d eaten gruel and had no firewood most of the time.

The effects had lingered. Adaia had written a letter to an old crew she’d worked for, and they’d offered her a spot in their latest job. She’d left after Kallian’s third birthday. Though she’d framed her job as a way to bring in much-needed funds, she’d barely been able to look Kallian in the eye as she left.

Cyrion hadn’t argued for her to stay, keeping his misgivings to himself. For all he’d known, returning to the life she knew might help. His main job had been parenting a wild toddler, but he’d also thrown himself into helping his family and the midwives that had helped him, whether babysitting, repairing, cooking, cleaning, letter writing, or anything else that needed doing.

Though Cyrion had been plagued with worries of Adaia freezing on a battlefield or flying into a mad rage and attacking one of her fellow mercenaries, he hadn’t mentioned them to anyone. When she’d returned home every six months or so, she’d been as quick-witted and fiery as ever. She’d grown more comfortable with Kallian as their daughter grew, enrapturing Kallian with tales of mercenary work and life beyond the Alienage walls. Those first two years had begun to seem like a bad dream.

And then Cyrion had set Adaia on the path that would kill her.

One evening, Adaia had said, “I love you more than everything in this life,” as she tucked their 10-year-old daughter into bed.

Kallian had been moody all week. There had been a power struggle among the children, and some of Kallian’s friends had stopped playing with her, or weren’t playing with her as much, or weren’t playing the games she preferred. Cyrion had long forgotten the specifics of that situation. Friendships blossomed and faded and rekindled so often, it had been hard to keep track.

So when Kallian had grunted and turned away from Adaia, he’d thought she was still upset over her friends.

Then she’d grumbled, “No you don’t. You love _coin_ more than everything in this life.”

“I—excuse me?” Adaia had sputtered.

Kallian had twisted around to glare at her mother. “If you loved me, you’d be here with me. But you don’t. Just stop lying. I’m not a little kid anymore. You don’t have to pretend.”

“Listen to me.” Adaia had held Kallian’s chin up so she couldn’t look away from her. “Everything I’ve done has been to protect you. Everything.” She gestured at their one-room home. “We could be living here with five other families just to make rent, like our neighbours. We could be eating gruel until our teeth fall out because we can’t get fresh food. Our fingers and toes could turn black in winter because we can’t afford firewood. It’s my and your father’s hard work that means we haven’t had to suffer any of that.”

Kallian had snorted. In a bored tone, she’d said, “And Papa’s mother and father died when he was 11, and he had to work hard all his life to keep his family fed. And the plague took most of your family, so you stole a bow and left Llomerryn to seek your fortune. Blah, blah, blah. I _just_ wanted you to stop lying. I didn’t need a big speech. Hmph!” She’d jerked her chin from her mother’s grip and turned around, pulling her covers up over her head.

Adaia had seethed, but let the matter lie until they were sure Kallian was asleep.

They’d been relaxing by the fire after washing dishes, sitting side by side on the couch as they sipped lavender tea, when she’d snapped, “Where did that lip come from?”

“She’s never hesitated to speak her mind.” Kallian would grow much cannier about when to do so as the years passed, but at age 10, she’d been as blunt as a war hammer. “Don’t let it bother you, dear heart. She’s never angry for long.”

“That girl has had honey on her toast every morning and a cup of milk before bed every evening, and she shames me for giving them to her! We’ve raised a spoiled brat.” After another sip, she’d added, “Well, it could be because she lacks a strong mother figure,” in a more conciliatory tone.

Cyrion had sipped from his cup to give himself time to muster his courage. “She worships you, you know. All she wants is more of your time. I can’t fault her for that.”

“You know why I can’t stay for long.”

“Has it…happened again?”

“Not yet.” She’d stared into the flames. Firelight had played on her cool umber skin, bringing out strands of chestnut in her brown hair. “But it could. I feel its echo, sometimes. In a bad day, in a thought that won’t leave, in an arrow that misses its mark. I think ‘Ah, here comes the madness,’ but then I focus on my breathing and try to see what good I’ve done, like the women taught me. I’ve staved it off so far. But if I can’t…Maker. Kallian doesn’t need to see me like that. And I’m not even sure I can repay your family for everything they did for us.”

“Oh, Maker, has Wyren brought that up again?”

“He doesn’t need to.”

“Please, put it from your mind. Family’s meant to help each other.

“Adaia, love, it’s been eight years. And I recall you’ve mentioned before that the life you lead is for the young. At 46, you’re considerably more experienced than most mercenaries.”

She’d chuckled. “If you mean old and beaten-down, just say it, old man.”

“To me, you’re as beautiful as the day I met you.” Even now, he wasn’t sure when she’d started calling him old man—he was only six years older than her, after all.

“Pshh, charmer.” She’d sipped her tea, looking thoughtful. “You know, I have found myself mentoring the young mercs more and more. And my shoulder could be doing better.” She’d rolled her shoulders, grimacing. “Takes hours of stretching to warm the cursed thing up enough to draw an arrow. I just…I wish I knew why Andraste had cursed me in the first place. I’ve sinned, but haven’t we all? I’m a better sinner than most. After we’ve taken care of our own, I try to spread our wealth to orphans, to the hungry, to the needy. If Andraste wanted to punish me for stealing a bow when I was 15 and abandoning an aunt and some cousins I’d barely spoken to, Our Lady took Her sweet time.

“Maybe it’s taking money for my skills at all. You remember the Grey Wardens wanted me?”

He’d forgotten. According to Adaia, everyone except the templars had tried to recruit her at some point.

“They don’t take coin,” she’d continued. “They fight darkspawn and demons just because they’re meant to. Like heroes.” She’d sighed heavily, then stood up and grabbed a bottle of rum from the cupboard. She’d offered him a sip before taking a long swig.

Cautiously, Cyrion had said, “I don’t think we’re supposed to know the Maker’s plan for us.”

“Mm. S’pose you’re right. You know the Chant better than me.”

She’d been silent for a time, drinking. He’d gently stroked her upper arm, which was thick with muscle from shooting arrows for decades. Eventually, she’d rested her head against his shoulder. There were times, mostly before he woke up, that Cyrion could still remember her warm weight against him.

“Perhaps…I could stay.” Her muscles had tightened. “If you were here beside me….”

He’d wanted to smile; his heart had beat faster. All he’d done was kiss her temple and murmur, “Always, my love. Always.” _She needs time to mourn her old life_ , he recalled thinking at the time. 

She’d kissed his lips. The spiced rum she’d been drinking had burned his tongue. When she’d pulled away, she’d said, “I might have to take up some hobbies.”

One of those hobbies, he’d learn much later, would be stealing from the wealthiest nobles in Denerim. At the time, he’d assumed she’d meant knitting or gardening. To this day, Cyrion wasn’t sure why he’d believed that. Perhaps the lure of having his family together had been so strong, he hadn’t wanted to question her.

“Hmm.” Cyrion had glanced over the back of the couch, seeing his daughter’s sleeping form. “Kallian? Are you awake?” When she didn’t respond, he’d leaned closer to Adaia, murmuring, “I can think of a few hobbies you might pursue, dear heart.” He’d nipped her earlobe, gratified by her warm chuckle, then they’d hurried to put out the fire and get into bed.

* * *

Cyrion slipped from memory to dreams. An old nightmare began: Adaia with her dagger raised over Kallian’s crib. Only this time there was no baby, but a miniature griffon made of maple wood. He ran for the griffon and tried to snatch it from the crib, but the griffon slipped through his fingers and shattered on the floor.

Then, he was deep in the bowels of a ship, locked in a cage with his fellow elves. Waves rocked the ship. Above deck, slavemasters cracked whips and bellowed orders. They would come for him soon, he knew. He could hear their footsteps on the stairs and the crackle of their unnatural fire. And his Maker-cursed hip throbbed terribly.

Cyrion jolted awake, the nerves along his left leg and hip awash in cold flame. He’d turned on his side in his sleep. He hissed a curse, tears prickling at his eyes, his stomach roiling.

It took some time for him to be able to breathe deeply. _I will not let pain turn me into someone else. Not yet. Not yet._

Outside, the moon was only just descending from its apex. He’d only had two hours of sleep, but the pain drove all thoughts of returning to bed from his mind.

Slowly, he got out of bed, swearing softly under his breath as he grabbed his cane and stood.

He might as well be useful. He could make an early start on some rose hip tea and breakfast.


	3. Chapter 3

Cyrion and Soris left before daybreak, Soris carrying the two sacks, one for the family’s gifts and one for friends’ gifts. They met Shianni, who was carrying two baskets of baking and a lantern, on the way. The three joined a mass of elves leaving the Alienage for work—or to look for work—in the city proper. Cyrion had enough coppers in his purse to drop into the caps of a few beggars by the Alienage gates, both elven and human. Charity wasn’t charity if you gave only to people who looked like you, after all.

They found themselves trailing a group of young elves, who dropped back to join them.

“You’re going to visit your daughter, ser Tabris?” asked Viessa Cherrith. She had the Cherrith family’s blue eyes and wavy blonde hair, though she had a more pointed face than most of her kin. “We’ll get you through the servant’s door, ser.”

“Thank you, Viessa. I wasn’t aware you’d taken a post in Arl Guerrin’s estate.” The girl was only 10, wasn’t she? Judging ages was difficult. These days, everyone looked like a child.

Her smile dropped. “It was Taran’s post. My brother. I begged the kitchen staff for his job.”

Now Cyrion recalled Valendrian naming Taran Cherrith among the dead in the purge. “I’m so sorry.” Cyrion took a few moments to place the young man. _He helped fix my roof once._ “I knew him as a stalwart young man. A hard worker, and never complained when a job needed doing.”

She brightened a little. “Though his glare could cut steel if he saw you slacking. Not that I ever have, sir.”

He chuckled. “I’m sure you haven’t.”

“Do you remember anything else about Taran?”

“I didn’t know him well, unfortunately. I wish I had. If you like, you could tell me more of him.” Even five years later, he could barely speak of Adaia…. What did Kallian remember of her?

Viessa hesitated at first, but then words started pouring out of her. Cyrion tried to keep up, asking questions every now and then when he got lost. Selfishly, it helped keep his mind off his hip. His jaw was sore from constantly gritting his teeth. Perhaps he’d overextended himself yesterday with his trip to the Chantry and then visiting the family.

The streets grew better repaired as they walked, and more torches lit the dark. The houses moved back from the street, and gates and yards started appearing. City guards patrolled regularly, watching the elven servants as they passed. Cyrion had taken this route for years as Lord Rodolf’s manservant. It was pleasant to get away from the noise of the market where he’d worked as a carpenter’s apprentice. _Perhaps I should apply for a post in a noble’s house. I still have my reference letter from the Rodolf estate. The walk would be longer, but it would be quieter._

 _If Denerim survives an Archdemon, of course,_ he had to remind himself.

“…he loved mince meat pies,” Viessa said.

“Your brother had excellent taste. I’m partial to them myself.” Viessa had spoken highly of her brother, a responsible, no-nonsense sort. If, to a 10-year-old girl, he hadn’t been particularly fun, he’d helped keep the family safe and well fed. Cyrion knew that burden well. “He was a credit to your family. I’m sorry the Alienage lost one such as him.”

She sniffled. “Thank you, ser.” He handed her a handkerchief so she could wipe her eyes.

He glanced at the other elves surrounding them. “Has Kallian told you why she joined the arl’s household?”

“She did, ser. She said she’s working with the Arl Guerrin to stop an Archdemon that’s coming to Denerim. Put the fear right in me when she told me. But my mums say we can’t leave. The Alienage is our home, and if there’s trouble coming, we gotta fight.”

Considering some of the gifts the Alienage had given Kallian, more elves knew how to wield weapons than they publicly admitted. Viessa’s mothers might have some martial training, for all he knew. Yet would that training be a match for darkspawn?

Kallian had told him something of the Blight after freeing him. “Your mothers are very brave, lass. Yet darkspawn are like no human mob or army the Alienage has ever faced. They’re mindless, ruthless beasts who accept no surrender, for they live only to corrupt and destroy.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “Oh.” Some of the older servants shared glances, though they had their backs to him, so he couldn’t see their expressions. Did they think him an old fool led astray by his daughter’s lies? Or did they believe him?

He’d stop by the Cherriths later today and try to convince them to at least send their children away. It was the least he could do.

The girl pointed. “Oh, look, here it is!” Ivy-covered stone walls hid the first two floors of the manor from view. Above the main gate was the sigil of Redcliffe, the Guerrin’s ancestral home: a tower atop a red cliff on a while field. Naturally, the servant’s entrance was far from the main gate.

A lit torch burned beside the small wooden door set in the wall. Two mail-clad guards bearing the Guerrin crest watched them approach.

“Give your daughter our best, ser Tabris,” Viessa said.

The guards waved her and the other servants in, but stopped Cyrion, Soris and Shianni.

“Hold, you lot,” the guard on the left said. His helm and bushy red beard showed little of his face beyond a large nose and grey eyes with dark circles beneath them. “Only our regular staff gets in.”

That was a sensible safety precaution, given that the arl was harbouring two Grey Wardens in violation of King Loghain’s orders.

“My apologies, good sir,” Cyrion said. “I won’t keep you long. I only wish to drop these off for my daughter, Miss Kallian Tabris. I believe she’s within.”

The guard snorted. “Haven’t heard that name. Best turn around and go back where you came from.”

“Well, could you please send a messenger to check?” Shianni said, annoyed. “Tell them Cyrion, Shianni and Soris are outside waiting for her.”

“The messengers aren’t up yet.” The guard shrugged. “It’s not my job to wake them.”

Cyrion was trying to be brave, like Adaia and his daughter, but his bravery didn’t extend to intractable armed humans. He opted to seem pleasant and harmless instead.

“Please, sir, we’re bearing belated birthday presents. Shianni, would you…?” Scowling, Shianni lifted the handkerchief off of the basket of carrot muffins. “See. Just some food and trinkets.”

The guard eyed the sacks. “Just trinkets, is it? You,” he snapped at Soris. “Give that here.” He gestured to the sack filled with the family’s presents.

Soris glanced at Cyrion, who nodded, a lump forming in his throat. The guard on the left opened the sack while his fellow on the right kept an eye on the elves.

The guard pulled out the griffon carving, examined it with a bored expression, then dropped it without a second thought.

“Hey!” Soris lunged forward to grab it.

The guard on the right drew his sword, while the guard on the left dropped the sack and made to draw his.

A cry sounded from the right—the guard had crumpled to the ground. Cracking sounds drew Cyrion’s attention back to the guard on the left, who was completely encased in ice. A sour taste rose in Cyrion’s mouth at the sight of such unnatural power.

Soris grabbed the sack and the griffon with trembling hands. Part of the griffon’s nest had snapped off as it hit the cobblestone.

A woman’s deep voice, heavy with scorn, rang out behind him. “How brave you are, to draw your swords on three unarmed elves, one of them an old man. Truly, your arl employs only the best to guard his household.”

Behind him stood the young mage that had fought Tevinter slavers at Kallian’s side. Cyrion recalled her shooting lightning and casting a dark fog that had crippled any slaver trapped within it.

He also recalled her wearing a lot more clothing than she was now. She wore black breeches and simple boots, but her top appeared to be nothing more than a large purple scarf, sometimes studded with black feathers, that barely covered her small breasts. To his surprise, he had some difficulty drawing his gaze from her chest. He’d assumed advanced age and Adaia’s death had buried whatever interest he’d had in women.

Then again, he’d never seen an outfit that showed quite so much flesh before.

Praise Andraste, the young woman was looking at the guards, not him. “We’ll be going inside now.” She walked forward, gesturing for the elves to follow. As they stepped into the servant’s quarters, she said to the guard on the ground, “For your information, these are indeed kin of the woman who saved your lord from a terrible illness and your lord’s son from demonic possession.” She smiled cruelly. “I would fain tell her how you treated her guests.”

 _Kallian’s done what?!_ A chill ran down his spine. _That sounds so dangerous!_

The mage walked past the guards and the elves without sparing the fallen humans a second glance.

Cyrion stayed put. Charity didn’t only mean helping those who looked like you. After a deep inhale, he forced himself to speak to a young woman who commanded great, terrifying magic.

“Thank you, miss—”

“Morrigan is fine, though some call me the Witch of the Wilds.”

Perhaps that name meant something to those who lived outside Denerim, but it meant little to him. “Er, are they going to be okay?”

She looked back over her shoulder at him. Her eyes were the deep yellow of a cat or a wolf. He quailed to be on the other end of that cool, assessing gaze. “The Crushing Prison will pass in a few minutes. That guard can break his fellow out of the ice.”

Cyrion couldn’t help but feel some sympathy for normal people caught up in such strangeness. “Is there any way to stop both spells? I mean…they were only doing their jobs….”

As the young woman’s lip curled, he looked away to pass the griffon to Soris, who put it in the appropriate sack.

Shianni snorted. “Harassing us and breaking our things was _not_ part of their jobs.”

“Come on, Uncle, let’s just go,” Soris said. “They’ll be fine.”

 _Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the Light._ Cyrion gulped. “If—if you wouldn’t mind, Morrigan…. That is, if it’s at all possible….”

After a moment, Morrigan’s gaze focused beyond him. A startled cry came from beyond the servant’s door along with a low, pained moan.

‘’Tis done,” the mage said, looking displeased.

“Thank you.”

She turned from him and continued into the courtyard beyond. “I’ll bring you to Kallian’s chambers.”

Cyrion chose to ignore Shianni’s sighed, “Uncle….”

The courtyard was lit sporadically with torches. Horses nickered in stables to their left. Two human servants carried a large chicken coop between them, some feathers and hay scattering in their wake.

Nearby, two hounds chased each other, the dark blur being chased by a tan blur. That tan hound whirled when it saw Morrigan and slowed, revealing itself as a mabari. Woofing, tail wagging, it trotted over to her.

Morrigan commented, “Your daughter sweet-talked me into walking the hound while I laid down magical wards throughout the manor to prevent intrusion.”

Only the beast’s gentle trot and the tongue lolling from its mouth stopped Cyrion from shrinking back. Packs of stray dogs roamed the Alienage, and they weren’t gentle.

The dog sat down, sniffing at the three elves before turning to the mage and woofing softly.

The mage rolled her eyes, then patted the dog briefly on the head. “Are you done seeking attention, beast? ‘Tis most undignified.”

“He’s—he’s a beautiful animal,” Cyrion said. He’d never had any reason to be close to a mabari. The beast was terrifying: almost three feet high at the shoulder, all muscle, with large jaws and a huge head. It could likely rip a man’s arm off with ease. “What’s his name?”

“Shartan. He’s Kallian’s hound, obviously.”

“Oh! I assumed it was a pet of one of the humans.”

“Come to think of it, the dog did always seem to be looking at Kallian,” Shianni said.

The beast looked at her, ears forward and tail wagging, as if it knew it was being discussed. After a moment, Shianni reached out with her palm up so the dog could sniff her hand. It obliged then nudged her fingers. Giggling, Shianni petted it between the ears. Shartan lolled its tongue out. It glanced at Soris and Cyrion as if welcoming them to try as well, but Cyrion had reached the limits of his bravery.

They continued through the courtyard and into the manor, past human and elven servants sweeping floors, carrying baskets of laundry, or hurrying from one area of the manor to the next. The guest chambers were in the right wing of the manor, overlooking a garden heavy with hibiscus and phlox. The flowers surrounded a marble fountain that sent the pleasant sound of trickling water through the windows, all open because of the heat.

Morrigan approached a wooden door on their left. From behind it came a man’s laugh. Kallian’s voice was deeper than average for a woman, but not that deep.

One of the few good things about being old was that people often thought you were hard of hearing. Though age had diminished Cyrion’s hearing in crowds, he could hear just fine when only one or two voices were speaking. He pretended not to have heard the man’s laugh, and it seemed the ruse worked. 

Shianni loudly said, “Uncle, we should find you a chair!” and began steering him away from the door. He followed readily.

Morrigan knocked on the door. “Kallian, your father and cousins stand outside. They’ve brought gifts in honour of the birthday you missed with them.”

“Oh!” said Kallian. “Ah, one moment!”

Kallian joined them a few minutes later, closing the door quickly behind her. She wore a simple brown tunic, breeches and boots. As always, Cyrion wished Adaia were here to see her.

“Papa!” Her arms were around him. He kissed her cheek then held her tight.

There was so much of her mother in her. A bystander likely wouldn’t have even thought them related. Cyrion’s yellow-white skin tone had mixed with Adaia’s raw umber to give Kallian cool-toned, dark-brown skin slightly lighter than her mother’s. Now, though, Kallian might as well have been her mother’s double for all that she’d tanned in the sun during her travels. Cyrion’s only easily noticeable contribution to Kallian was her thick, straight black hair, unlike her mother’s dark-brown, wavy locks. Cyrion’s hair had gone grey, but even at 62, it showed few signs of thinning.

He never spoke of it, but he harboured vanity in his heart for this blessing. Hopefully, the Maker would forgive him for it.

Kallian left his embrace to kiss and hug Shianni and Soris. “You didn’t have to, but thanks so much for coming!” She glanced at the sacks as she scratched her mabari between its ears. “What’s in those?”

“Your presents,” Cyrion said.

“My what?”

“This sack is from the family, and this sack is from your fellow elves, in honour of everything you’ve done for us.”

“The baking’s from the family,” Shianni added. “A lot of us pitched in for fresh honeycakes—including me and Soris—and Auntie Orella made her famous carrot muffins.”

Stunned, Kallian opened and closed her mouth for a few moments.

Morrigan chuckled. “’Tis I who have been given a gift—I’ve so rarely seen Kallian speechless.”

Kallian shook her head. “I just—when I heard birthday presents, I thought you meant the usual carving from Papa and IOU from these layabouts.” She nodded to Shianni and Soris, who protested in mock-anger. “I didn’t think you meant _this_ much stuff. I can’t believe…thank you so much, everyone.”

“Show her your present, Uncle,” Soris said, opening up the sack.

“It, ah, got a bit damaged on the way here,” Cyrion said as he reached in.

“Yeah, because of those idiot guards outside!” Shianni said. “They were pawing through our stuff!”

Kallian’s gaze sharpened. “What?”

“I prevented any unpleasantness from occurring to your kin,” Morrigan said. _By visiting unpleasantness on two guards_ , Cyrion wanted to say, but didn’t. If the mage had just told the guards they were Kallian’s relatives, wouldn’t that have neatly solved everything? “I’d be more than happy to report what I saw to the arl in hopes he might retain better staff.”

Kallian nodded. “Do it.”

Suddenly, purple light flared from the mage. In a few moments, a large crow—perhaps a raven—stood where the mage once had. Cawing, it spread its wings and flew out the nearest open window.

“Right,” Shianni said, her eyes wide. “She just became a crow. Okay. Okay.” To Kallian, she asked, “Can all mages become crows?”

“I think it’s pretty rare.”

“Anyway,” Cyrion said. He reached in and pulled out his griffon, turning the missing piece of the nest away from her.

She took it and turned it around to catch the details. “Papa, this is amazing!” Any pain he’d felt walking here had been worth it to see the brightness in her eyes and her delighted smile. She kissed his cheek and hugged him tightly again. “You didn’t have to get me anything. You already gave me Mama’s dagger.”

“That was a weapon. I wanted to bring you gifts. Something to remind you of the people who love you.”

She kissed his cheek again. “Such a softy. And I didn’t get you guys anything.” Nodding at the baskets, she said, “Well, here’s a start: why don’t you have breakfast with me and my friends before work? Maker knows, this is more food than I can eat.”

If Morrigan was any indication of the company Kallian kept, Cyrion wasn’t eager to make their acquaintance. “We wouldn’t want to impose—”

She interrupted him. “How can it be imposing when you’ve brought your own food? That’s the opposite of imposing! C’mon—when else are you going to get to sit at an arl’s table and enjoy all this luxury?”

“The arl’s not going to be there, is he?” Soris asked, alarmed.

“I doubt it. We’re not that close. I mean, we are planning a—” she made a show of looking around before mouthing ‘coup’ “—together, but we don’t sit around gossiping about our love lives and braiding each other’s hair. So, come on!”

She linked her arm around Cyrion’s and began steering him from the guest rooms. “Soris, bring the gifts! I can open some of them at breakfast.”

Shianni grinned. “Or we could just drop the gifts off in your room.”

Without missing a beat, Kallian said, “And leave them to get stolen by lowlife knife-ear servants? Absolutely not! Let’s just keep walking.” Cyrion pretended to miss the glare she shot at her cousin, who giggled.

Cyrion supposed not all of Kallian’s companions could be as violent as the young mage. “All right, my dear. Just as long as we don’t become a bother.”

Kallian rolled her eyes, giggling softly. “Not that it’s likely to happen, but I’ll tell you the exact moment you become a bother, my dearest Papa. Okay?”

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was: "It’s the Warden’s birthday and they are convinced no one knows about it and they’re happy to leave it that way. This isn’t the time for celebration. Do they spend their birthday alone and sad, or has someone found out about the special day?"


End file.
